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CQFmiGHT DEPOSrr. 



POEMS 



The Captive 's Address to Fancy 
and Other Poems 



BY 



JAMES GARDNER 



Tarn corde guam manu 




THE CAMEO PRESS AND PUBLISHING COMPANY 

NEW YORK 

1919 



-^"b 






Copyrighted 19 IQ. by 
James Gardner 

Printed in the United States of America 
All rights reserved 



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PRESS OF 

THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY 

LANCASTER, PA. 



©Cl.A5592il 



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TO MY SISTERS 

MARION AND ELIZABETH 

THIS BOOK IS 
LOVINGLY DEDICATED 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Captive's Address to Fancy 11 

St. Helena 15 

Sahara 17 

The Saddest Things 21 

Millionaire and Pauper 23 

Belisarious 25 

Lessons 29 

Ere This New Year Has Ended 31 

Lines to a Mountain 35 

To a Society Woman 37 

Misfits 39 

Lines to a Sea Shell 41 

Thou and I 43 

Estranged 45 

Why Nellie Goes No More to School 47 

A Pair of Old Shoes 49 

To the Wind 51 

Her Letters 53 

Wild Birds 55 

Hope 57 

To Victorine 59 

Early Morning Naps 61 

To a Desert 63 

We Never Can Turn Back 65 

Dust from Heaven 67 

The Reason 69 

Cromwell 71 

Love's Philosophy 73 

vii 



PAGE 

The Spring Poet 75 

Friends 79 

A Truth 81 

Kindness 83 

The Best Friend 85 

Mammon 87 

To a Weeping Willow 89 

Kind Words 91 

Cromwell 93 



Vlll 



POEMS 



THE CAPTIVE'S ADDRESS TO 
FANCY. 

SPREAD out thy wings, my Fancy, O wild 
bird, blythe and gay. 
Spread out thy strong swift pinions and speed 

thee on thy way. 
Far from the gleaming heavens Night's curtain 

is unrolled. 
And rosy tides of morning are flooding hill and 

wold. 
Untramelled thou may'st wander, nor will I call 

thee home. 
Though o'er the world forever thy restless wings 

may roam. 
Though I am held in fetters and base captivity, 
O Fancy, chainless Fancy, thy wings are always 

free. 
As free as proudest eagle that soars the heavens 

wide; 
As free as streamlet dashing from down the 

mountain's side; 
As free as wildest charger that roams the desert 

plain ; 

[11] 



As free as seagull skimming the restless raging 
main; 

As free as storm clouds drifting across the win- 
ter sky ; 

As free as winds of summer that in the forests 
sigh. 

Then why should'st thou be drooping, or in a 
prison pine 

When land and sky and ocean and all the world 
are thine? 

From lands of palm and spices and splendid 
scenes of bliss, 

Where Nature bums and blushes 'neath fierce 
Equator's kiss ; 

Where in the lap of ocean are spread the tropic 
isles, 

Whose coral strands are gilded by summer's con- 
stant smiles ; 

To where in frozen splendor the cruel Arctic 
reigns ; 

Where frown the spectral glaciers and stretch 
the icy plains ; 

[12] 



O thou at will may journey — in any zone may 
dwell — 

Can soar to highest heaven or dive to deepest 
hell. 

No bonds can hold thee captive, no prison's 
gloomy night ; 

No granite walls, no shackles can curb thy dar- 
ing flight. 

So spread thy regal pinions and leave me to my 
gloom ; 

Thou need'st not share my bondage, my dungeon 
or my doom. 



[13] 



ST. HELENA. 

O LONELY island, thou art but a scrap 
Of the creation that convulsions past, 
With careless hands all aimlessly hath cast 

Into the surging ocean's mighty lap. 
Thy naked feet the restless billows wrap 

In snowy vestments. Thy lone form is glassed 
In the huge mirror of the waters vast, 
Though but a speck upon the world's great map. 

Yet, once upon thy barren strand the glance 
Of each great nation of the world was bent. 

For on thy shores, by nature all unblessed ; 
The great Napoleon, pride of vanquished 
France, 

Was like a caged lion basely pent 

To end his days thy exiled, captive-guest. 



[15] 



SAHARA. 

THOU art lone and drear, Sahara, and by 
some unkind mishap 
Nature has not cast a blossom in thy arid, barren 

lap. 
Spring will visit other regions, and her steps on 

hill and wold 
Will awake the seeds that slumber underneath the 

fertile mold. 
But to thee she brings no frondage, and thy 

naked wilds complain 
To the lurid skies that grant them not a drop of 

cooling rain. 
But, although thy plains are springless, and 

with no gay frondage dressed, 
I, who yearn for calm and quiet, do not deem 

thee all unblessed ; 
For thy very desolation shields thy parched and 

burning sands 
From the turmoil and the troubles that afflict 

more favored lands. 
Thus when my impatient spirit struggles in its 

hopeless strife 

[17] 



With the galling chains that bind it to the hard 

demands of life ; 
When hope's skies are draped in shadow and mis- 
fortune's winds blow chill, 
And endeavor's bare feet falter on ambition's 

rugged hill ; 
I would flee, O drear Sahara, to thy calm and 

peaceful arms. 
As a vessel seeks a haven from the tempest's wild 

alarms ; 
And upon some green oasis that thy desert sands 

enfold, 
Like an emerald embedded in a band of shining 

gold, 
I would build my humble dwelling, fenced by 

wilds all lone and bare, 
Where the harsh-toned voice of trafiic has not 

roused the demon care ; 
And within thy walls of silence I would find a 

sweet surcease 
From the pains that poison pleasure, and the 

trials that murder peace. 
[18] 



I would be as free, Sahara, from the cares that 

scourge me now, 
As the eagle soaring o'er thee, and the breeze 

that fans thy brow. 



[19] 



THE SADDEST THINGS. 



T 



HE bud that from its birth was doomed 
To wither ere its beauty bloomed. 



The seed that ne'er from slumber woke, 
Or through the closing furrow broke. 

The broken shaft that marks the head 
Of some young life too early fled. 

The riven links of love's bright chain 
That only God can mend again. 

The tears we shed for some dear friend 
When broken faith the bond must end. 

The heart, which, though it aches the while. 
Conceals its pain behind a smile. 



[21] 



MILLIONAIRE AND PAUPER. 

THOUGH difFerent in fortunes as the night 
and the day, 
Alike were they molded by God out of clay. 

Whatever their station, they equally share 
The love of the Being whose image they bear. 

Unequal yet equal, by weakness allied 

The one Fortune favored, and the one she denied. 

The chasm which one from the other divides 

Is bridged by a kinship that circumstance hides. 

Both own the emotions that wantonly play 
On the chords of the heart the very same way ; 

And passions that breed only sins for their heirs 
In the bosoms of both have made their dark lairs ; 

While Virtue, that tender exotic, may grow 
Alike in the breasts of the high and the low. 

The puppets of chance, both the humble and 

great. 
They move by a string that is handled by Fate. 
[23] 



The playthings of impulse and slaves of desires, 
Their bosoms are scorched with unquenchable 
fires. 

The dupes of illusions, alike they pursue 
The mirages that charm ere they fade from the 
view. 

Alike do they suffer disappointment's eclipse; 
Grief holds the same bitter draught to their lips ; 

Care burdens them both with a wearisome pack ; 
Pain stretches them both on the same cruel rack ; 

Chance brings them alike its proportion of ruth ; 
Time robs them alike of the treasures of ^^outh ; 

And Age treading slowly the pathway of years, 
As surely to one as the other appears ; 

And neither the one nor the other will spare. 
But furrows the forehead and silvers the hair. 

And when in the dark lonely grave they are 

thrust. 
They both are the same — but a handful of dust. 

[24] 



BELISARIOUS. 

Belisarious, who as a military genius deserves to rank 
with Hannibal, was the greatest general of the Byzantine 
empire, and Justinian owed much of the glory of his reign 
to the conquests of this remarkable warrior. It is stated 
that, in his old age, blind and in rags, he begged alms on 
the very streets through which had once been borne the 
trophies of his victories. 



A LAS, how fallen I am now; 
^ -^ I once was honored in the land, 
And wore the laurels on my brow 
Bestowed by grateful ruler's hand. 

Yes, I, who once, a monarch's guest. 
Reposed in princely palace halls 

Now lay my aged limbs to rest 
Within a squalid hovel's walls. 

The honey of a king's applause 

Once filled with joy these very ears, 

Which now the vilest wretch may cause 
To tingle with his taunting jeers. 

This voice that mighty armies made 
The servants of its every tone — 
[25] 



This voice that vanquished hosts obeyed, 
And dared to dictate to a throne ; 

Has now an humble supphant turned 

Within its own dear native land, 
And that degrading lesson learned 

To sue where once it did command. 

These hands that once o'er fields of sand 
Guided the war-horse to the fight ; 

And made the victor's flashing brand 
The scepter of an army's might; 

Have laid the battle sword away. 

And now stretch forth their war-worn palms. 
So that the scornful passer may 

Insult them with his paltry alms. 

Is this, Justinian, then the meed. 
The guerdon of great battles won. 

That through the clouds of woe and need 
I see descend life's setting sun? 

My lance pinned to thy empire's map 
A nation won by bloody toils, 
[26] 



And poured into thy realm's great lap 
The treasures of a victor's spoils. 

It needs no tongue with loud acclaim 
To tell the story of my wars. 

For on this bent and withered frame 
The sword has written it in scars. 



[27] 



LESSONS. 

OBEE that dost so swiftly roam 
O'er flowery mead and fragrant bower, 
And beareth to thy waxen home 

The tribute of each generous flower ; 
No moment dost thou waste, for well 

Thou knowest that the time is brief 
Ere in the arms of vale and dell 

Shall fade each bloom and verdant leaf. 
Industrious bee, well would it be 
If some a lesson learned from thee. 

O patient camel, doomed to fare 

O'er dreary wastes of desert lands ; 
Oft forced by tyrant man to bear 

Hard burdens o'er the scorching sands ; 
Though pain attends each weary league. 

And endless seems the burning track ; 
Thou bearest still, despite fatigue. 

Without complaint thy heavy pack. 
O patient beast, well would it be 
If some a lesson learned from thee. 
[29] 



O hound, more loyal far than he 

Who thrice the Nazarene denied ; 
Unshaken thy fidelity, 

Although all others turn aside ; 
Though troubles round thy master flock 

Like hungry wolves about their prey ; 
Though at his door grim want may knock, 

But never dost thou turn away. 
O faithful dog, well would it be 
If some a lesson learned from thee. 



[30] 



ERE THIS NEW YEAR HAS 
ENDED. 

1910 

ERE this new year has ended 
That promises so fair, 
How strangely will be blended 

Bright pleasures with despair, 
How many hopes we cherish 

Will wither ere they bloom. 
And leave us when they perish 
To disappointment's gloom. 

How many ties be broken 

That only God can mend ; 
How many farewells spoken, 

How many friendships end. 
How many troths be plighted 

Beneath hope's cloudless skies ; 
How many hearts united 

In love's enduring ties. 

How many children tender 
On life's hard road will start, 
[31] 



With eager hands to render 
Each one his httle part. 

How many lives will waken 
To greet a bright morn, 

And have life's sandals taken 
From feet all travel-worn. 

Ere this new year has ended, 

And o'er its scenes at last 
The curtain has descended 

That links it to the past ; 
How many things will happen. 

What strange events transpire; 
What storms on land and ocean, 

What plagues and famines dire. 

Will War call forth his legions, 

And loud his tocsin ring. 
And at the feet of nations 

The gage of battle fling.? 
Or will Peace hold in bondage 

The hostile nations all. 
And drown with her paeans 

The martial bugle's call ? 
[32] 



We know not, nay, we know not, 

Wise scholar, sage, and king, 
The strange, the mighty changes 

A fleeting day may bring; 
For mystic and uncertain 

The unknown future lies 
Behind Time's jealous curtain 

That hides it from our eyes. 



[33] 



LINES TO A MOUNTAIN. 

IN lonely grandeur thou dost rise, 
Piercing the smoke-wreath's misty shrouds, 
Thy forehead in the shining skies 
Above the path of roaming clouds. 

At break of morn the king of day 
With his first kiss salutes thy cheek ; 

At eve his last expiring ray 

Falls lightly on thy lofty peak. 

Deep silence wraps thee. Solitude 

Reigns there supreme. All safe from harm 
The eagle rears his dusky brood 

Beneath the shelter of thy arm. 

No foot essays thy turrets steep ; 

Thy summit grim no path provides ; 
Scarce can the nimble mountain sheep 

Find foothold on the sloping sides. 

Low at thy feet spring from her loom, 

So prodigal to gentle leas, 
Has robed the valleys deep in bloom, 

Made garments gay for all the trees. 
[35] 



For thee alone no garb she'll find, 
By gorgeous f rondage all unblessed, 

She leaves thee naked to each wind 
That roves about thy barren crest. 

Yes, thou art nude, and only thou. 
Thy very head uncrowned and bare, 

Till pitying snows have sought thy brow, 
And bound a spotless turban there. 



[36 



TO A SOCIETY WOMAN. 

YOU call yourself queen of the fashion, 
Your kingdom is Vanity Fair; 
Your court is the gay crowded ball-room; 
Your throne is the tete-a-tete chair. 

Your mirror your sagest adviser ; 

Your subjects are puppets of style; 
Your laws are your whims and caprices ; 

Your creed the religion of guile. 

The squadrons composing your army 
Are useless to fight and to kill ; 

Their battlefield only a parlor, 

Their tactics, the waltz and quadrille. 

To love in your kingdom is treason, 
A crime, lo, the darkest in hue ; 

And sentiment dies on the scaffold. 
If once he but dares to be true. 

To feel is a sin without pardon. 

To blush is a habit unknown ; 
Poverty is punished with exile, 

It's a fault you never condone. 
[37] 



And such are your manners and customs. 

No immigrant ever so bold 
Would venture to enter your regions 

Unarmed with a passport of gold. 



[38] 



MISFITS. 

OLD Destiny, life's architect, oft draws his 
plans so ill 
That many a one is doomed to miss the niche he 

ought to fill ; 
And from the humblest cottage to the palace 

and the court 
He makes of every human life his plaything and 

his sport. 
He chains a poet to the forge, an artist to the 

plow, 
And gives a sage a clown's high cap to wear 

upon his brow. 
He makes a voice that nature meant to ring in 

senate halls, 
Urge stubborn teams to draw the cart with loud 

and angry calls. 
He puts the reins of state in hands designed to 

drive a dray. 
And gives a shepherd's crook to one who should 

a sceptre sway. 
He makes a warrior don a cowl, and in the cloi- 
ster kneel, 

[39] 



And sends a priest off to the wars clad in a coat 
of steel. 

He sends home-loving feet to rove on weary pil- 
grimage, 

And holds a captive one who thinks his home is 
but a cage. 

The strong oft get the smallest loads, the weak 
the largest packs ; 

A giant often plies a pen, a dwarf the ponderous 
axe. 

And such the woof and warp of life this wizard 

often knits 
That all the world where'er we turn seems filled 

with strange misfits. 



[40] 



LINES TO A SEA SHELL. 

I LISTEN to thee, lovely shell; 
Though parted from thy native shore, 
I still within thy pearly cell 
Can hear a mimic ocean roar. 

And must a voice within thee dwell 
That will not hush or cease complain, 

But still must mock the billow's swell, 
And tell of depths where thou hast lain? 

Must memory in thy bosom keep 
The sleepless whisper of regret. 

That still must tell thee of the deep, 
Nor let thee of thy loss forget ? 

Must coral caves and grottos bright 
Still woo thee to their hidden bliss ? 

Must thou still mourn the sweet delight 
That lived in ever^^ billow's kiss? 

How like thy whispered, soft complaint 
This voice that in my bosom dwells. 

Whose plaintive music, low and faint, 
Of long lost joys so sadly tells. 

[41] 



THOU AND I. 

THY life is like a pleasure bark 
That cruises near a sunny shore, 
And when the sky with storm is dark 
In some calm haven rests secure. 

But mine is like a shattered boat 
Adrift on stormy waters cast ; 

Tossed by the waves, yet doomed to float, 
But finds no place to rest at last. 



[43] 



ESTRANGED. 

NO pathless ocean deep and wide 
Between them lies ; they meet 
Each day, walk side by side 

Along the same crowd-cumbered street. 

And though the homes in which they dwell 
Lie in the selfsame crowded mart, 

Were she in heaven, he in hell, 

They would not be more far apart. 



[45] 



WHY NELLIE GOES NO MORE 
TO SCHOOL. 

A PLEASANT pathway lies between 
My cottage and a lonely moor — 
A byway fenced by hedges green 

That line its length and shade it o'er; 
And near it fringed with flowers sweet, 

There lies a limpid, laughing pool ; 
'Twas there last year I used to meet 
Sweet Nellie on her way to school. 

That year has passed. The springtime weaves 

A mantle just as bright and gay ; 
The sunshine sifting through the leaves 

Makes pictures on that quiet way. 
She came no more, I knew not why ; 

I saw the summer season wane. 
But never more could I descry 

Her small feet tripping down the lane. 

The year grew old ; a sober hue 
Crept over meadow, hill and wold ; 

And Autumn o'er the woodlands threw 
His robe of crimson, brown and gold; 
[47] 



When passing by a churchyard lone, 

Where winds were sighing soft and cool, 

I read in words carved on a stone 
Why Nellie goes no more to school. 



[48] 



A PAIR OF OLD SHOES. 

THEY are useless and wholly discarded — 
These shoes that some little girl wore; 
Cast aside, as rubbish regarded, 

Their journeys forevermore o'er. 
Old Time has laid wantonly o'er them 
The coat of his mildews and mold ; 
We know not who owned them or wore them — 
Their story will never be told. 

Did they move with unwilling paces 

Each day on their journey to school, 
And loiter in cool shady places, 

Defying the teacher's strict rule? 
Did they tread with soft, noiseless tipping 

The floor in a sick-room's deep gloom 
Before they went merrily skipping 

O'er meadows with flowers abloom? 

Did they join the gay whirling dancers, 

And glide in the wildest delight 
Through quadrilles and waltzes and lancers 

In the glow of chandeliers bright? 
[49] 



Did they speed with steps ready and willing- 
Steps lithesome and airy and fleet — 

In eagerness gladly fulfilling 
Some mission of charity sweet? 

Perhaps the small feet that were hidden 

Within them, so dainty and slight, 
Have by the kind angels been bidden 

To roam in fair gardens of light; 
And there where the soft, balmy weather 

Grows never dark, stormy nor cold, 
These little shoes fashioned of leather 

Were changed for bright sandals of gold. 



[50] 



TO THE WIND. 

WITHIN the arms of continents the ocean 
frets in vain, 
Striving to shake the empires' clutch from his 
imperial mane; 

But thou, bold rover of the world, in thy resist- 
less might, 

Wilt brook no fetters to thy will, no barriers to 
thy flight. 

Oh, thou mayst dwell in any zone — mayst rove 

in any clime. 
From India's spicy valleys to the Alpine heights 

sublime — 

Mayst fan Sahara's burning brow, then from 

the desert drear 
Speed on to sound thy trumpet's blast in grim 

old Arctic's ear — 

Mayst lift the veil of mist that hides the moun- 
tain's frozen peak. 

And then descend in thy rough sport to smite old 
ocean's cheek; 

[51] 



Till the insulted main rebels, and pouts in awful 

wrath ; 
WTiile angry billows dance in rage where thou 

hast made thy path. 

On thunder's tongue thy voice proclaims the 

cyclone and the gale, 
And on thy wings the tempest rides that bids the 

forest quail. 

Though thou dost lend thy strength to man to 

waft across the wave 
His fragile bark, he cannot boast that thou wert 

e'er his slave. 

But fetterless and unconfined, thou speedest on 

thy way. 
As free as when God bid thee rove upon the 

primal day. 



[52] 



HER LETTERS. 

I'LL burn her dainty letters, 
Yes, every precious sheet. 
For time has loosed the fetters 
That held me at her feet — 
Each tender tie is broken. 

The dream is o'er at last ; 
I will not keep one token 
That links me to the past. 

They're chapters of a story 

Of love's delightful lore. 
Whose pages now grown hoary, 

I care to read no more. 
The little play is over. 

Its acts we'll not recall. 
And though I fondly love her, 

We'll let the curtain fall. 

Yet how my fancy lingers. 
In fond regret confessed, 

O'er pages where her fingers 
So lovingly have pressed. 
[53] 



Ah, me, the sweet emotion 

That thrills through every line 

That tells the dear devotion 
Her heart once had for mine. 

Yes, burn them, let them perish — 

That love is out of date ; 
It's folly now to cherish 

The vows that they relate. 
Alas, it would be better 

If memory, too, could bum, 
And with each old love letter 

To lifeless ashes turn. 



[54] 



WILD BIRDS. 

I CANNOT keep my thoughts at home, 
Those wanton wild birds will not stay 
Within their cage, but ever roam 
With bold ambitious flight away. 

Oft to the mist-enshrouded past 
The swift rebellious vagrants rove. 

And cross its seas, gloom-draped and vast. 
To perch in memory's tangled grove. 

Oft-times with pinions strong and fleet, 
They dare the future's mystic clime. 

Until with weary wings they beat 
Against the prison bars of time. 

And when sleep weaves his fairy chain, 
And weary limbs in bondage lie. 

They leave their perches in the brain 
To soar in dream's enchanted sky. 



[S5] 



HOPE. 

FROM the springtime of our childhood to 
the winter of old age, 
With the hosts of care and trouble every day we 

all must cope ; 
And so long as we have parts to play upon life's 

tragic stage, 
Our spirits are uplifted by the sweet sustainer, 
hope. 

In the fleeting days of pleasure, in the lagging 
days of woe ; 

In the sunshine of our triumphs, in the gloom of 
dire defeat; 

She allures us, and we follow, ay, we ever on- 
ward go. 

Though our burdens seem too heavy and the 
thorns have pierced our feet. 

Though we rest in pleasure's valley, though we 

scale the mounts of care ; 
Though we feast in rich prosperity, or starve on 

famine's crust; 

[57] 



Though we dress in costly raiment, or the beg- 
gar's tatters wear, 

We pursue her lovely visions till the body turns 
to dust. 

In each human habitation ; in the cloister, in the 

marts, 
In the palace of the monarch; in the hovel of 

the slave; 
She's a guest that ever lingers, and she cheers all 

human hearts. 
Though they beat within the bosom of the craven 

or the brave. 



[58] 



TO VICTORINE. 

DO not deem me all unfeeling, 
Though my face is stern and cold; 
It is not by outward seeming 

That the mind's deep thoughts are told. 

Feelings and the mask that hides them 

Stand forever far apart, 
And the face is not the index 

To the secrets of the heart. 

Underneath pride's frozen surface 
Passion's fires still burn and glow, 

Just as flames scorch Hecla's bosom, 
Though its form is clad in snow. 



[59] 



I 



EARLY MORNING NAPS. 

T is very well in winter, when the skies are 
dark and drear. 
And the wind makes mournful music in the forest 

bleak and sere. 
To be lulled in early morning by the rain-drops' 

soft refrain. 
As they beat with gentle cadence on your dark- 
ened window-pane. 



But when winter is all over, and the only hint of 
snow 

Is the dogwood's blossoms scattered by the 
breezes to and fro; 

It would seem to me a reckless disregard of na- 
ture's gifts 

Should I sleep a single moment when the night's 
dark curtain lifts. 

To the night I give my slumbers, for I think it 

is his due. 
And I float on dream's bright billows all the lone 

dark hours through; 

[61] 



Oh, but when the dawn is breaking, I elude sleep's 

artful trap. 
When he seeks to snare my senses in a slothful 

morning nap. 

It is not a time for slumber when the young day's 

urn of gold 
Spills a ceaseless stream of lustre over drowsy 

hill and wold; 
So I seek divorce from blankets when a bright 

spring day is bom, 
And the world pins on its bosom the fair blossom 

of the mom. 



[62] 



TO A DESERT. 

REPINE not at thy hapless lot, 
O naked waste of scorching sands, 
Nor deem it all unmeet that not 

A wreath is thine from nature's hands ; 
For though no garlands o'er thee twine, 
A perfect calm and peace are thine. 

Full many a wreath-crowned sister land 
Of vineclad hill and flowery wold. 

To whose gay dress the wave-kissed strand 
Is as a fringe of shining gold. 

Is often torn by conflicts dire. 

And swept by battle's blighting fire. 

But grim and all-destroying War, 

Who smites the climes with roses decked, 

Upon thy plains hath left no scar 
To tell the tale of nations wrecked; 

Thy sands the red and awful draught 
Of human gore hath never quafl^ed. 

Gaunt Famine's children often fare 

Where fields are rich with ripening grain, 
[63] 



But never seek thy wilds, nor dare 
Invade thy barren, dread domain ; 

The taintless winds that o'er thee blow 
Bear not a groan of human woe. 

Where plenty reigns. Vice thrives the best, 
And foul Disease's festering brood. 

In lands with flowery mantles dressed, 
Roves free o'er many a verdant rood ; 

But Pestilence and Sin ne'er roam 
To thy lone sands to find a home. 

Thus, though denied the sparkling rills. 
The gorgeous blooms and f rondage gay ; 

Thou still art spared life's countless ills, 
And shielded from man's bitter fray ; 

Thou art, indeed, a region which 
Sterility hath made most rich. 



[64] 



WE NEVER CAN TURN BACK. 



F 



ROM happy youth to sere old age life's 
rugged way we wend, 
The cradle is the starting place, the lonely 
grave the end ; 
Yet this is true, through all the years whate'er 
we gain or lack. 
It matters not how long the way, we never can 
turn back. 



Like mirage on the desert sands, hope lures us 
on, we fare 
With eager feet o'er pleasure's vale and dreary 
miles of care; 
Yet this we know, though joy may light or grief 
make dark the track, 
Our feet can tread it only once — we never can 
turn back. 

Turn back, who would relive one day — bid time 
his steps retrace — 
Reverse the shadow that is cast across the 
dial's face.f^ 

[65] 



We who have writhed, in days gone by, upon 
grief's cruel rack. 
Are thankful that upon life's path we never 
can turn back. 



[66] 



DUST FROM HEAVEN. 

"V7"EARS ago in winter time 

-■^ When the snow's white mantle fell, 
And you heard the merry chime 

Of the sleigher's tuneful bell — 
When the fields and meadows lay 

White beneath the leaden skies, 
That old nurse of mine would say — 

And I thought her then so wise, 
That without a single doubt 

I would take her sayings all, 
Chile dey's sweepin heaben out 

When you see dem snowflakes fall." 

I have laid my childhood by 

Like a garb no longer worn. 
And the grasses thick and high 

On my nurse's grave have grown ; 
Yet when winter comes each year. 

And the leaves lie sere and brown, 
While from skies gloom-draped and drear 

Flakes of snow come floating down, 
[67] 



As I watch them whirl about, 
Those old words I oft recall — 
" Chile dey's sweepin heaben out 

When you see dem snowflakes fall." 



[68] 



THE REASON. 

WHY does the world avoid that one 
With cold averted eye? 
What has he done that people shun 
And pass him coolly by ? 

Has he some loathsome, foul disease 
From whose contagious clutch 

Each one in mortal terror flees, 
As from a leper's touch ? 

Or has dishonor's blackened hand 
Estranged him from his race. 

And fixed on him guilt's shameful brand 
That time can ne'er efface? 

Has he done murder? Does he wear 

The awful badge of Cain, 
That he is forced by men to bear 

The burden of disdain? 

Nay, friend, e'en malice could not trace 

Upon his stainless name 
A single mark of black disgrace. 

Or one dark spot of shame. 
[69] 



He is not shunned when he is seen 
For aught of word or deed; 

In sooth, the world deems him unclean 
Because he is in need. 



[70] 



CROMWELL. 

LONG years have passed since noble Crom- 
well died, 
But still undimmed his mighty footsteps stand 
So deeply graven on old England's strand 
That powerless is Time's effacing tide 
To wash them out, or their impressions hide. 
Fame counts him deathless — he whose iron 
hand 
Put gyves on kingly might — whose fingers grand 
Shaped Freedom from the clay of kingly 
pride. 

His name defies the ruthless rust of age, 

And England's unborn millions yet shall read 
How from the metal of a people's rage 

He wrought the sword that saved her in her 
need; 
And with a tyrant's blood inscribed on History's 
page 
The deathless story of his fateful deed. 



[71] 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 

IT is over and fled' — the vision I cherished ; 
The flame was too fierce for its burning to 
last; 
The rose of my love lost ics perfume and perished ; 
I gave the dead bloom to the arms of the past. 

Should I weep that the passionate madness has 

vanished — 
That the colors have died in the beautiful dream ? 
Should I weep that out of life's sky has been 

banished 
The star that was dearest and brightest of beam? 

Should I weep that the honied red lips that I 

tasted 
Respond to my passionate kisses no more — 
That the ruby red wine in Love's chalice was 

wasted 
And the fruit that invited was dust at the core? 

Should I weep that a string in Love's harp has 

been broken — 
That discord has crept in the ravishing strain, 

[73] 



And its tones as they reach me bring only the 

token 
Of a dream I have lost and can never regain? 

Nay, weep not in sorrow — in vain were regretting 

The dreams and the loves that have withered and 
fled; 

New loves will arise, the dear old ones for- 
getting — 

New passions will burn when the old one is dead. 

The flowers that bloom in their summer-time 
graces, 

Though they wither and die in the mid-winter 
gloom. 

Will awaken once more in a new spring's em- 
braces, 

In fragrance as sweet, and as gorgeous of bloom. 



[74] 



THE SPRING POET. 

npHERE was a bard who once in glorious 
-^ fashion 

Was borne so high on Fancy's soaring wings, 
He seized his lyre in ecstacy of passion 

And woke the music sleeping on its strings. 

He sang of Love whose fierce and ardent burning 
The waves of all the oceans could not slake ; 

Of lovers who in deep despairing yearning 
Had fought and died for some fair lady's sake. 

He sang of Hate with wild eyes fierce and 
glaring ; 
With vengeance dwelling in a blackened heart ; 
Whose hands with wrath, so bitter and un- 
sparing, 
Wield bloody knife and sword and deadly dart. 

He sang of War and fierce and bloody battle 
Of squadrons clashing on the sanguine plain, 

[75] 



Of cannons' roar and muskets' deadly rattle, 
Of gory fields and ghastly piles of slain. 

He sang of Peace who with her soothing lotion 
Healed all the wounds that cruel War had 
made, 
Who calmed the conflict's fierce and wild com- 
motion. 
Dispersed the hosts in deadly strife arrayed. 

He sang of skies in glowing splendor shining, 
Of daisies sprinkled o'er the verdant fields ; 

Of crimson roses in the gardens twining ; 
Of all the joys that blushing nature yields. 

He sang of bee and merry chirping cricket, 
Of every gladsome creature on the wing ; 

Of birds that flit in every brake and thicket, 
And cause the woods with music sweet to ring. 

Until at last his passion slowly spending. 
He sought about for other themes to sing ; 

Then heart and soul in one grand eff^ort blending. 
He softly sang a gentle ode to spring. 

[76] 



And then his lyre grown weary of abuses, 

Would brook no' more the stale themes he 
awoke ; 

A deaf ear turned to all his vain excuses, 

Gave one low, sickly, gasping groan and broke. 



[77] 



FRIENDS. 



S you travel life's hard journey, you will 



A 

■^ -*- find if you are wise, 



That wealth attracts a host of friends, as honey 
draws the flies ; 

And they will buzz about you, and round you 
cluster while 

You hold the horn of plenty and you bask in 
fortune's smile. 

But let misfortune's cruel hand some dark dis- 
astrous day 

Depose you from wealth's sunny heights, your 
riches snatch away ; 

Let troubles flock about you, like the vultures to 
their feast. 

The selfish world will pass you by ; its friend- 
ship will have ceased. 

The rats desert the corn crib when they've eaten 
all the com. 

And not a fly goes near a pot whose honey is all 
gone; 

[79] 



Thus when life's skies get clouded, and misfor- 
tune's rain descends, 

And the pocketbook gets empty there's a falling 
off of friends. 



[80] 



A 



A TRUTH. 

S the uncouth oyster, that lies beneath the 
deep, 

Within its rough and homely shell a precious 
pearl may keep — 

As gems of priceless value and veins of richest 
gold 

May lie beneath the surface of a naked, bloom- 
less mold — 

So God oft gives a heart with the noblest traits 
endowed 

To one to whom He hath no outward grace 
allowed. 



[81] 



KINDNESS. 

A LITTLE deed of kindness shown 
To some dark life so sad and lone, 
May seem a thing of little worth, 
And unregarded be on earth — 
A flower cast aside to die, 
Forgotten ere a day goes by. 
But seen by angels' watchful eyes. 
Beyond the clouds where Heaven lies ; 
And treasured in those realms on high — 
God's fadeless palace of the sky. 
That deed a living sparkling gem. 
Shall stud the glorious diadem 
The Savior's loving hands prepare 
In Paradise for you to wear. 



[83] 



THE BEST FRIEND. 



E trudge life's stony pathway, but before 



w 

' ' our journey ends 



We'll have, ah me, so many and such different 

kinds of friends. 
How many will be faithful till our fortunes go 

amiss. 
And then prove false like Judas, and betray us 

with a kiss. 
We weep the sad defection of the faithless ones 

we trust. 
And sink like regal Caesar 'neath the traitor's 

dagger thrust. 
But though the steel of Brutus lurks behind full 

many a smile, 
I do not rail at friendship nor accuse all friends 

of guile; 
For some, the true, the faithful will be loyal to 

the end 
Through all the cruel changes the fickle years 

may send; 

[83] 



Yet, I have learned this lesson as I scale life's 

rugged mount, 
The friend that proves the truest is a good-sized 

bank account. 



[86] 



MAMMON. 

OLD Mammon is the idol 
To which men bend the knee 
Through all the years from youth to age 

Until they cease to be. 
Before his sordid altar 

The prince, the sage, the clown, 
The tradesman, and the nobleman 
In reverence bow down. 

No god could be more jealous 

Than this base one of gold, 
Whose tabernacle seems to keep 

The world within its fold. 
The ledger is his Bible, 

His temples^ — ^busy marts. 
Where men to feed the hungry purse. 

Cheat sleep and rob their hearts. 

And his two mighty high-priests 

Are Avarice and Greed, 
Whose doctrines teach the multitudes 

No other god to heed. 
[87] 



Men starve the kind emotions 
To meet his hard demands, 

While Honor often soils her robes 
Obeying his commands. 

No heresy or schism 

His mighty ranks invade, 
And all the tenets of his creed 

Have ever been obeyed. 
And all the passing ages 

Add millions to the train 
Of those who ceaseless homage pay 

To this great god of gain. 



[88] 



TO A WEEPING WILLOW. 

It /FUST thou the guise of sorrow wear 
J^TJ- While all the woods with laughter ring; 
While gladness fills the summer air, 
And violets o'er the meadows spring? 

While brooks their mirthful stories tell. 
And zephyrs waft their soft replies, 

While flowers bloom in every dell. 

And sunshine laughs in cloudless skies ; 

While every glade is filled with glee. 

And sylvan joy is everywhere. 
Must thou, O pensive, drooping tree 

Thy silent sadness still declare? 

Like one who mid a festive throng 

Is sad while all the rest are gay, 
Who j oins not in the banquet song. 

And scorns the revel's bright display ; 

Who views with cold, indifferent glance 
The merry dancers floating by, 
[89] 



And has no partner in the dance, 
But mingles with the mirth a sigh. 

Can nothing turn thee from thy woe 
Or bring thee respite from thy grief? 

Can all the joys the skies bestow 
No solace bring thee or relief? 



[90] 



KIND WORDS. 

IT ET your words be kind and gentle, 
-'—^ Often has a heart been stung 
By an unkind answer f aUing 
From a hasty, heedless tongue. 

As the rain from skies descending 

Cheers the parched and thirsty plain. 

Kind words soothe the life that's bending 
Underneath a weight of pain. 

As the oil on troubled waters 
Calms the billows in their race, 

Kind words often smooth the frowning 
From an angry, sullen face. 

As the sunbeam, mists dispelling. 
Gladdens with its gleaming ray, 

Kind words often lift the shadows 
From despairing hearts away. 



[91] 



CROMWELL. 

CROMWELL held the scales of Justice and 
he in that balance weighed 
The prerogatives of rulers with a bleeding na- 
tion's woes, 
And his sword smote for the people, and his 

great arm was not stayed 
Till he freed them from a tyrant, and had hum- 
bled Britain's foes. 

In the flames of revolution he did plunge the 
kingly pride, 

When oppression's tide was running at its dark- 
est, highest flood. 

And he held it in war's furnace till it came forth 
purified. 

Though he had to stain the scaff'old with a 
mighty monarch's blood. 

From the iron of his nature he did make the 
steadfast stays. 

Whose strength upheld the fabric of his coun- 
try's sinking fame, 

[93] 



When her crippled valor staggered in proud 

Europe's scornful gaze, 
When the hand that held the scepter, not the 

nation, was to blame. 

It was he who raised her prestige upon victory's 

shining stairs 
Till he placed it where it now is in its proud and 

lofty seat. 
And he gave it half the luster that it now so 

proudly wears. 
When he changed the French king's triumph 

into ruin and defeat. 

Not a monument is raised him, but his great deeds 

have a tongue 
That is calling, ever calling o'er the chasm of 

the years, 
Telling England, in the dark days when her 

mighty arm was young. 
How he battled for her liberties and banished all 

her fears. 



[94] 




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